


Only Half A Memory

by StevesKhakis (orphan_account)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Just a whole lotta fluff, M/M, Neil deserves to die, No smut? Shocking I know, Shitty parents are shitty, Stereotypical 80's romance, but make it gay, im a sucker for fluff tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/StevesKhakis
Summary: Steve is so fucking nosy. Billy almost wants to hate him for trying to get in all the little crevasses of Billy’s mind that he has cluttered to the point not even himself has access to them anymore. But he’s so, so fucking beautiful, holding his lips against Susan’s mug as he drinks his sweet coffee and looks at Billy like he’s watching a caterpillar turning into a butterfly,That Billy has no choice but to grab his own mug and drag Steve over to his messy room.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 36
Kudos: 222





	Only Half A Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesbianferrissbueller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianferrissbueller/gifts).



> ILY, Johnny! We're two halves of a whole idiot xx

“So, that’s how you drink your coffee?" Steve's pointer fingers comes into Billy's line of vision, pointing at his mug, "You _barely_ put any sugar in it.”

Billy takes a deep breath. He sets his spoon aside, grabs the mug off the countertop with a cautious hand.

When his eyes meet Steve, he’s carefully studying Billy’s every move, like maybe Billy is a wild little creature in its natural habitat and Steve’s some science guy from a boring documentary. His eyes are big, bright and beautiful, and when the light hits them just _right_ ,

They look like there’s honey in them.

“Yes, Steve,” He says, and he’s trying to sound harsh, annoyed, even, but it comes out with little to no venom, “That’s how I drink it. Black, no sugar.” And he squeezes his index finger and his thumb together to emphasize, ‘cause,

Steve had put so much sugar in his own coffee that it looked more like molasses than it looked like actual coffee, but as much as Billy had wanted to jump out of the window at the sight, he had managed to refrain.

Steve is the most beautiful thing Billy's ever seen, even when he's ruining perfectly good coffee. Billy's entire system malfunctions whenever Steve's there, doing the most mundane shit. But when asked, Billy’ will just say he's getting better at controlling his impulses.

“Is that it? Or is there anything else you wanna know?” Billy asks, leaning closer, propping himself on his elbows, a snarky look on his face, “Wanna know how I like my steak? How I like my _boys_?” Billy grins, and he swears Steve’s cheeks are about to melt off, given the pretty shade of pink that blooms on them when he goes, “I thought we had already gone through that: I like ‘em pretty, tall, dark hair, big _—_ ”

“Shut _up—_ ” But much like Billy’s comment, it has no bite, so Billy licks his lip and continues,

“I was gonna say _big eyes_ ,” Billy lifts a hand, feigning innocence, “But you’re right; a big dick is a must, and I'm sure yours is _—_ ”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Steve huffs out, rolling his eyes and pouting a little, but laughing despite himself. He's nervous, and Billy thinks it’s fucking _adorable. "_ I never thought I'd hear shit like that coming out of your mouth, that's why _—_ " He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand funny. "That's why I keep asking stuff, I guess. You're, like. You're not how I thought you would be."

Billy thinks, briefly, about the pros of jumping Steve Harrington right there. This is the Mayfield household, though, and jumping boys is not allowed here, no matter how empty the house is.

No matter how cute the boy in question is, especially when he realizes Billy is not talking. “I’m sorry, I was just… Curious.”

And, like. Billy has to arch both brows at that, has to shake his head and go, “I think _curious_ is an understatement,”

‘Cause, you see,

Steve has been doing this for _days_ now.

Seventeen days, three hours and twenty-five minutes, if we’re being exact here, but who’s counting? Definitely _not_ Billy. This is a casual thing, or so Billy is trying to convince himself, despite Steve's insistent 'it could be a lot more than just this if, you know. If you wanted.' 

Seventeen days of Steve Harrington just, being all up on Billy’s business,

Asking him about his favorite movies, his favorite songs, his favorite things to do on sunny weekends, his biggest dreams, his biggest fears,

And seventeen days are barely a little over two weeks,

Not even close to being a month,

So naturally, the part of Billy’s brain that is logical and rational just wants Billy to get away, to run and never look back,

The part of Billy’s brain that has been manipulated and molded by Neil over the years _—_ It just _wants_ him to kick Steve until he’s curling on himself.

It wants Billy to stay unreadable, to stay at an arm’s length,

“Is it too much?” Steve gestures at himself with his free hand, his other hand holding his mug close to his lips, “I mean, me, asking you all this stuff?”

But the base, primal portion of Billy’s brain, the one in which he has stored the smell of the beach and the sound of his mother’s laughter tells him to stay, tells him that he deserves to have this, ‘cause,

It’s truly been a long ass time since the last time someone genuinely cared about Billy. Billy's pretty sure Maxine does, but that's complicated.

The thing with Steve is _— Well, you know._ It's complicated too, but. Steve makes it look easy. Makes it better. 

“It’s kind of _a lot_ ,” Billy confesses, “But I think I can take it.” Then he straightens, as if he’s bracing himself for Steve’s merciless aim.

Billy then winks at Steve, and he just slits his eyes like a cat, looking away. Billy is definitely not too familiar with love, not too familiar with the whole relationship thing, but _hell_ , he thinks he might be actually catching feelings, when he finds himself thinking that every single dumbass micro-expression Steve makes is _cute_.

“…Can you tell me about your favorite childhood memory, then?”

_Fuck._

Steve is so fucking nosy. Billy almost wants to hate him for trying to get in all the little crevasses of Billy’s mind that he has cluttered to the point not even himself has access to them anymore— But he’s so, _so_ fucking beautiful, holding his lips against Susan’s mug as he drinks his sweet coffee and looks at Billy like he’s watching a caterpillar turning into a butterfly,

That Billy has no choice but to grab his own mug and drag Steve over to his messy room.

And as Billy is rummaging through boxes, old records and washed-out band shirts, he can see Steve shifting on his bed out of the corner of his eye, stretching and making noises like comfort is his main priority. Like a cat.

Steve reminds Billy _so_ much of a cat. He kind of loves it. He also kind of wants to push Steve off his bed, 'cause this whole thing is _overwhelming_ , and he feels like his heart is three times its original size now and anyways,

By the time he’s done searching, Steve’s empty mug has been long abandoned on top of Billy’s nightstand, right next to Billy’s half-full one, and he’s lying on his stomach, shirt all rucked up and exposing pale skin and a few moles,

Billy has a hard time not staring.

So he lies next to Steve and sighs deeply as he hands him a small photo-album, “All of my favorite childhood memories are here.”

The photo-album is blue and has some delicate daisies on the front, and although they’re stained yellow from how old it is and from all the times Billy has grabbed it and clutched it close to his chest, Steve still runs his fingers over them with some kind of adoration Billy’s sure he’s never seen.

Steve starts flipping through the pages, studying each picture carefully; at first he has to demand descriptions and narratives from Billy, but as minutes turn into hours and Steve keeps giggling and pointing out the smallest details, visibly enjoying the whole thing, Billy is comfortable enough to give context without being asked.

Steve has the most beautiful smile Billy's seen.

Then there’s this particular picture of barefoot 5-year-old Billy playing with sand at the beach with a navy blue shirt and red trunks that Steve just _can’t_ pry his eyes away from. Billy has no idea why— they’ve gone through dozens of pictures of Billy at the beach already, and this one is not only significantly more damaged than the other ones, but it is also ripped in half.

Only half a memory.

Still, Steve keeps tracing the ripped end with his lips pursed like he’s holding his breath,

So Billy feels like he has to say something.

“I remember that day,” He says casually, but then he clears his throat a little, “My mom and I… We went to the beach, after— After she and Neil had some sort of argument.”

It had been more than just an argument, but it’s not like Steve needs to know that. “She looked beautiful, I tell ya. Words could never do her justice, I… I wish I had a picture, but I don’t think we brought the camera with us that day.”

Of course they didn’t. Neil had broken it, and Billy had found his mother crying on the kitchen floor.

Not like Steve needs to know that _either_.

Steve grits his teeth ever so slightly, gives Billy a tight smile, “Then—Then who took this one?”

“I dunno,” Billy shrugs, “There was some other kid at the beach that day, some little boy,” He adds simply, “We played for a while, I guess his parents took it or something. It was some yuppie family, never saw them again.”

It’s a sunny Saturday morning, and playful rays of sunshine are coming through Billy’s window, casting a golden glow on Steve’s features, enhancing the way his lips open and close a couple of times, the way his eyebrows furrow,

And he refuses to look at Billy even when he’s shifting to his side, propping himself on his elbow and running his fingers softly through Steve's chestnut hair, “Hey,” Billy says,

And he had no idea he could be so soft-spoken, but here he is, barely using his voice as he repeats, “ _Hey_ ,” And Steve,

_Hell,_

Steve seems dazed,

He keeps shifting on his spot, his eyes darting from the photo-album to some blank space in Billy’s wall,

Until he finally, _finally_ sets the little object to the side and stands up, fast and clumsy, making one of Billy’s pillows fall to the floor as he heads to the door.

“ _C’mon!_ ” Billy whines, rolling on his back as he listens to the loud noises Steve makes as he stomps out of the house and through the doorstep,

“ _I’m just— I’ll be right back, okay_?? _I… I’m—_ ”

But then the door of Steve’s Beemer shuts close, the engine starts, and,

Billy’s pretty sure Steve’s _not_ coming back.

It’s a sunny Saturday morning and there’s an empty mug on top of Billy’s nightstand and his photo-album is still lying right next to him and _god fucking damnit,_

Seventeen days are a little over two weeks, right?

Not even close to being a goddamn _month,_

But Billy’s already managed to push Steve away, somehow,

And he feels like he’s a fucking idiot— He’s not sure of what he did wrong, yet, but he’s _sure_ he’s an absolute asshole, pushing the only person who truly cares about him away after dumping his emotional baggage on him, and,

And, where the fuck is Neil when you fucking need him?

The world feels like cotton, the front door is wide-open, and Billy's still lying on his bed, finishing up his cold coffee, smoking, holding the nicotine a little longer than usual, letting it burn inside of his lungs,

Two cigarettes, three cigarettes, four cigarettes,

Right arm draped over his face, drifting in and out of sleep, minutes feel like fucking hours,

The world feels like cotton,

“ _I thought your band-aids were cool,_ ” A familiar voice says, a voice that sounds like it comes from all the way over _there_ when Billy’s right _here_ ,

Drawers are being opened and closed and Billy can barely bring himself to drawl a quiet, “…What?” Not bothering to open his eyes, letting the smoke come out of the corners of his mouth,

“ _Your band-aids_ ,” The voice repeats, getting closer, “ _I thought they were badass._ ”

There’s silence, and the bed shifts, dips on Billy’s left side,

“ _And your mom was beautiful, for sure._ ” Billy’s heart skips a beat, “ _Don’t need no pictures, I remember her,_ ”

And,

“ _Blonde hair, right? Like yours, but longer, and_ ,” Billy feels like his soul is trying to leave his body, “ _A big hat and a dress._ ”

Billy’s arm barely moves, but it’s enough to reveal a single blue eye that he then uses to peek and scorn at Steve, who’s sitting next to him with the photo-album lying on his lap, a roll of clear tape in his hand and sweet, soft smile on his face,

And the world feels like goddamn _cotton,_

“It was the summer of ’72,” Steve adds, using his teeth to cut a small piece of tape, “That was the last time I actually enjoyed going on a trip with my parents. After that, everything’s turned into money, businesses, divorce threats…” He says, like he’s used to it,

Like nothing can rock his world anymore, like he has no fucking clue he's rocking Billy's entire world, right now, and,

And, when Billy finally brings himself to turn over and see what Steve is doing, he feels like he’s being slammed against a wall.

All these years, Billy had thought that the other half of his picture had gotten lost on one of their multiple moving-out trips,

Or that maybe Neil had been especially angry one day and had ripped it in half,

Or that maybe his own mom had taken the other half with her when she had left.

Billy was wrong.

“My mom took this picture, by the way,” Steve adds, handing the now restored photo to Billy, both halves of it attached together right in the middle,“And you’re right. We were a yuppie family— We still are, but now I’m a little older _._ And _prettier._ ”

He’s supposed to sound smug and cocky, Billy figures, but the boy blushes when Billy sits and shift closer to him, gasps when their fingers brush, looks raptured, big brown eyes trained on Billy’s lips,

And Billy feels close to believing in something, here and now, under the soft curve of Steve’s warm smile.

If God were a moment— this would be it.

Steve kisses his temple, and Billy thinks, as his soft lips move across his skin once more— Billy thinks—

Steve is actually right. He is pretty.

But he’s also very sweet, genuine. Real.

And Billy pretty much wants to stay beneath his palm forever. The essence of this moment, of the here and now, will never be captured by another hand. Billy will never feel like this with anyone else, not in the new curves of any stranger, not in any girl, and not in any boy,

Whatever finite matter is making this moment, making this magic— It is something specific to Steve, something specific to _them_ ,

There are _layers_ to the tangle between them,

Strangers, rivals, lovers, kids who spent one day together at the beach all those years ago.

It’s not half a memory anymore.

“Stop being gross and make some pancakes, William,” Max yells from the door, wild red hair untamed like a lion’s mane, mismatching socks and hot pink sweatpants that clash with her yellow top, “If you’re gonna stick your tongue up Steve’s mouth the least you could do is feed him first.”

“Listen, you—”

“ _I’m hungry, William!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, yes.
> 
> I absolutely forgot to mention that I made the artwork myself lol what a dumbass


End file.
